


this (here and now)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [11]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Dessert, Drabble, Fluff, Food Porn, Ice Cream, M/M, Musing, Seasons, Second Person, Snow, Summer, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ice cream at midnight o'clock in the middle of winter. A treat only Peter would indulge Harry in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this (here and now)

 

>   _The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again._
> 
> _\--Achilles (Troy)_

Peter was looking at you like you’d suggested you both skinny dip (not that he and you hadn’t done it before. But that was camp, too many years far back to count, when you were kids, naïve little things barely grasping a firm hold of the world. Camp with the school. In Roxbury. Moonlights and jumping into freezing water without a care. Good times.) off the Brooklyn Bridge, in public space, at fucking midnight o’clock.

“Ice cream?” his eyebrow was lost in his hairline, “Are you kidding me, Har?”

Okay, he might be right in that aspect. Might.

So you were sitting on his bed, next to him, legs tangled with his, just hanging out here for the night. Had your backs to the wall, two pairs of legs stretched out along the bed’s width. He was wearing his favorite jumper—the hideous navy blue one you loved to hate—with faded jeans, and you’d just thrown on your new orange-yellow sweater and the rag & bone jeans you’d been waiting for the right casual moment to wear.

The point was this: it might also have been thirteen degrees out. Might.

And an unnoticeable amount of snow outside the window.

(Okay. A bit of snow.)

“It’s February,” you pouted, fingers drumming on his blanket (red and blue. Were they his favorite colors?) “We’re not even halfway through. I miss summer.”

This winter had been particularly long…and brutal. Gruelling. Mini-flurries and chilling winds sprinkled with icy white specks that seeped through the fabrics of your coat, down to your skin. A whole City, its streets covered in thick, several inches of crunchy white. Its trees, naked branches and lining the paths, dressed to match.

White. White. All white, so much white your eyes could barely adjust. And here you were beginning to think Frost’s answer to his _Fire and Ice_ poem might be true.

It was starting to feel like fucking Narnia, and it was only February.

He looked at you. Stared. Chocolate browns widened and softened. Lips that pursed in thought and opened up to speak.

“Fine,” he decided, and your heart leapt a little in joy, “I know a place.”

You took his hand in yours.

“Was going to save it for April, or something, but since you wanted—“

You pressed a finger to his lips.

“Ice cream,” you whispered, “Ice cream. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So why ice cream?” he asked, fingers splayed on the small table. You were sitting opposite each other, him on a stool, and you at the sofa (because you deserved it. Because you totally did deserve it). The East Village bar was tiny, cramped, and the queue was long. You’d almost given up and walked away, when he grabbed your hand.

“Come on,” he tilted his head in the direction of the bar, located at the basement floor of a townhouse, “We’ve come all the way here. It’s snowing, anyway. And you want ice cream, still, right? Bit of waiting wouldn’t hurt.”

And you hesitated, hand loose in his grip.

“Ten minutes,” he glanced back down at the bar, where a line of people had formed. A waitress was just taking the latest couple’s (Yes. Okay. So this was a date. Another date. He’d taken you out—a midnight o’clock, no less. Add something witty about boyfriend commitments here, and it was a place packed with mostly couples. A few groups of close friends, you’d guessed from a cursory survey, but mostly couples. And you and him were, definitely at this stage, passed the definition of ‘close friends.’) names onto her notepad.

She’d called out the latest queue number, and you groaned.

“Six,” you repeated, voice light, after a second of being simply dumbfounded, “Six. We’re not even going to get to step into this place.”

(You were holding the queue card of number twelve.)

He shook your hand. Squeezed it.

You made it in after twenty minutes of huddling into him in the cold. (Granted, you had your Prada coat and McQueen scarf, but it was freezing out. And you wanted ice cream, still.)

You had your elbow on the table, chin resting on your palm. “Because it reminds me of summer,” you backed away when a waiter placed plates of ordered dessert on the table, one at your end, the other at his. “Don’t you miss it, summer? Warm breezes. Lazy hours. Licking down ice cream at one of those benches in the Park, watching people bike. There’s music in the air. There’s sunshine. Heat. Sunglasses, and short shorts. Lounging in the pool…and just…staying there.”

(You got sentimental, drawing out a picture of summer in the dead of winter. Who could blame you, really?)

He picked up the miniature shot jar of hot chocolate that accompanied his banoffee, pouring it over the dessert cup.

“I do,” he agreed, nodding, “I do miss it. The city’s alive, in a way. Those few months we have in the sun.”

You smiled, picked up a spoon and started to dig into the chocolate green tea lava cake. Cut yourself a bite-size portion of the cake—the green tea lava, mixed in with the melted chocolate filling, started spilling out of the hot cake, very impressive. Had to admit.—and a bit of the green tea ice cream, served on the side.

Swallowed down the contents of the spoon. Let the cool ice cream melt in your mouth, mixed in with the moist, heated chocolate cake.

And you let out a soft moan, a low hum in your throat.

“God, yes,” you were saying, tongue darted out to lick the spoon, tastebuds jumping at the green tea and chocolate combination, “So. Good.”

So. Fucking. Good.

“Like it?” he grinned, eyes locked onto yours, probably relishing your reaction to the dessert. And you’d let him. It was that good, too good to put on a fucking tease show.

This was probably that moment in the lame, cliché romantic comedy when you said that pre-written, stereotypical line, but you would have done it anyway. Here was now. Here was with him, in this bar, at this hour, in this tortuous winter. Here was dessert spoons and a twenty-four by twenty-four inch table. Here was two chocolate eyes in front of you, in extreme focus, inside a crowded bar, amidst the throng of lovers, of friends, of families. Here was his voice, honey and smooth, hot chocolate in the freezing night, directed at you, meant for you, spoken with you, used on you, and you alone. Here was with him. Here was tasting, tongue savoring the pale, tea green and the crumbling brown. Here was forgetting, living a moment inside the sweetness, inside desserts. Warmed by tastes—fireworks on your tongue, and warmed by eyes, his on yours.

You’d been adored, a large percent of the time by people you couldn’t care less about. You’d been admired, put on the necessary pedestal and worshipped and torn down. You’d been famous, mentioned, a celebrity.

But nothing could compare to the look in those eyes.

Like. Genuine liking. Affections. Feelings that might even be love. Might.

(Okay, so you were siding with yourself, as you tended to do. Again.)

He watched you, stared. And he was glad, eyes lit up, delighted, when you were.

Happiness. Shared. A moment, between two people, across a small table, in a crowded bar.

Why do we love what fades? you’d read that somewhere, and the phrase hadn’t quite left your mind.

Why do we love what fades?

You watched him this time, as he took a small portion of his banoffee (banana, toffee, oreo crumbs, vanilla tuile, and the poured hot chocolate) into his mouth, lips curled into a satisfied, wide, “O.”

Why do we love what fades?

The taste on the lips. The touch of the skin. The fleeting summer breezes. The captured moments in your mind that ended soon as they started.

Answer: Because they could. Fade. Leave. Be ephemeral. Transient.

Because they happened. They’d slipped by, and be forgotten, if you hadn’t taken care to remember.

Because they tended to fade, these little moments. They were hard to come by. They’d disappeared from your life, and you’d lived out, seeking the next of the moments.

We loved. You loved. Because they could not last.

That’s the truth. That’s the beauty.

You’d grasp them as they came by, precious and glowing in your mind, fading as they were.

Clung onto them tight.

Not letting go.

“Loved it,” you placed the spoon on the table, and leaned over, brushing your lips on his. Hoped he’d taste the green tea on your tongue, “Loved it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble for Marvel Daily on Twitter. Theme/Topic was: summer.
> 
> Degrees (Fahrenheit) used in the drabble.
> 
> The dessert bar mentioned is real: It's the Spot Dessert Bar at St. Marks, East Village, in NYC :). Definitely drop by there, if you have a chance, though the queue was indeed that long when I was there.
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! Y'all mean the world to me.
> 
> With love and ristretto,
> 
> x


End file.
